Gather Together in My Name - Maya Angelou [38]
I opened it without needing to. Thin brown cigarettes were held together with three rubber bands.
Even in his absence, Bailey had helped me. I lighted one of the cigarettes and in minutes was snickering over the stupidity of the Establishment. The U.S. Army with its corps of spies had been fooled by a half-educated black girl. I sat down on Bailey's bed and laughed until I had to fight for my breath.
CHAPTER 21
I took a job as swing-shift waitress in a day-and-night restaurant called the Chicken Shack. The record player blared the latest hits incessantly and the late-night clientele spent their overflow energy loudly in the brightly lighted booths.
Smoking grass eased the strain for me. I made a connection at a restaurant nearby. People called it Mary Jane, hash, grass, gauge, weed, pot, and I had absolutely no fear of using it. In the black ghetto of the forties, marijuana, cocaine, hop (opium) and heroin were only a little harder to obtain than rationed whiskey. Although my mother didn't use anything but Scotch (Black & White), she often sang a song popular in the thirties that at its worst didn't condemn grass, and at its best extolled its virtues.
Dream about a reefer five foot long
Vitamin but not too strong
You'll be high but not for long
If you're a viper.
I'm the queen of everything
I got to get high before I can swing
Light some tea and let it be
If you're a viper.
Now when your throat gets dry
you know you're high
Everything is dandy
You truck on down to the candy store
And bust your conk on peppermint candy
Then you know your brown body scent
You don't give a damn if you don't pay your rent
Light some tea and let it be
If you're a viper.
I learned new postures and developed new dreams. From a natural stiffness I melted into a grinning tolerance. Walking on the streets became high adventure, eating my mother's huge dinners an opulent entertainment, and playing with my son was side-cracking hilarity. For the first time, life amused me.
Positive dreaming was introduced on long, slow drags of the narcotic. I was going to do all right in the world, going to have it made—and no doubt through the good offices of a handsome man who would love me to distraction.
My charming prince was going to appear out of the blue and offer me a cornucopia of goodies. I would only have to smile to have them brought to my feet.
R.L. Poole was to prove my dreams at least partially prophetic. When I opened the door to his ring and informed him that I was Rita Johnson, his already long face depressed another inch.
“The … uh … dancer?” His voice was slow and cloudy.
Dancer? Of course. I had been a cook, waitress, madam, bus girl—why not a dancer? After all, it was the only thing I had studied.
“Yes, I'm a dancer.” I looked at him boldly. “Why?”
“I'm looking for a dancer, to work with me.”
I thought he might be a talent scout for a chorus line or maybe the big stage show, featuring colored dancers, called “Change Your Luck.”
“Come in.”
We sat at the dining-room table and I offered a coffee. He looked me over, one feature at a time. My legs (long), my hips (spare), my breasts (nearly nonexistent). He drank the coffee slowly.
“I've studied since I was fourteen,” I said.
If the U.S. Army was going to penalize me for having gone to the California Labor School, it was just possible that someone else would find the time spent there valuable. I was right. His eyes moved from an examination of my body back to my face.
“I'm Poole. From Chicago.” His announcement held no boast, and I was sure that represented sophistication rather than false modesty. “I do rhythm tap and I want a girl partner. She doesn't have to do much but flash. Are you agva?” (“Flash” and “AG.V.A” were words unknown to me.)
I sat quietly and looked at him. Let him figure it out for